At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. "Take care of yourself, then," rejoined Thames, doubling his fists, and advancing towards him: "though my right arm's stiff, I can use it, as you'll find. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. No: I must face it out. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered.
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